


Third Time's the Charm

by Highly_Illogical



Series: A Whole New World [4]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: (or not...), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Credence Barebone Learning Magic, First Kiss, Internalized Homophobia, Love Potion/Spell, M/M, Mary Lou Barebone is Her Own Warning, Original Percival Graves is Bad at Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-02-04 17:37:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12776046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Highly_Illogical/pseuds/Highly_Illogical
Summary: Percival has been distant, and Credence resorts to desperate measures.It goes better than expected.





	Third Time's the Charm

**Author's Note:**

> With the new promotional picture, the Alternate Universe tag is more deserved than ever.  
> I don't know what the fate of this series will be once the second movie comes out, as I'm usually a stickler for canon, with Gradence being one of my very few deviations, but until then... enjoy.
> 
> Now officially interrelated! These stories don't quite form a plot, but please read the previous work for this one to make sense.

Credence is staring at his hand as though expecting a new mark to blossom on his skin where Percival’s lips touched it, a firebrand of sorts, to declare him… what, exactly?

 _A sinner_ , says a voice in the back of his mind that sounds very much like Ma.

But most everything in life was a sin, if you asked her, and if she were here to pass her stone-cold judgement on the new one he’s living, he supposes this – whatever _this_ is – would make very little difference.

By an unspoken agreement, they do not discuss That Day, as he’s secretly taken to calling it, when Percival had read his palm like a book, tempting him with the shining promise of a future that may or may not have been entirely made up, and sealed that vision of wonders with a chaste brush of his lips that had left his scarred hand burning with something other than pain and his mind in turmoil.

Percival seems to have no inclination to talk about it, and Credence doesn’t dare ask, and so they do their best to go on as though That Day had never existed.

But it has.

If nothing else, it has jumpstarted his resolve to bite his tongue whenever the force of habit would have him call the man ‘Mr. Graves’, resulting more often than not in awkward half-formed words as he steers around the old form of address and reminds himself to refer to him as Percival, because a warm feeling in his gut tells him they must, at least, have moved beyond the stiff formality of their early days. It feels less and less foreign on his tongue every time he says it, like taking bite after bite of some exotic dish and slowly growing accustomed to the strange new flavor, but the occasional slip-up is always around the corner.

But what else it might mean, well, that is for Percival to know, and the man is not talking.

If anything, he is more distant than Credence remembered: he still has an infinite reserve of patience for his questions, and his slow but steady progress has not been affected, but his answers are short and to the point, saying exactly what he requested and not a word more. He will no longer color the introduction of a new spell with amusing anecdotes from his youth, easing his frustration at his initial failures with tales of similar mishaps from when he and his peers were still learning it; his praise, once far more liberal than Credence thought he had any right to, is now a rare, hard-earned treat to be cherished, and it’s more painful than he cares to admit. He’s grown spoiled.

He reviewed every single word that has passed between them, his heart heavy with the certainty that he must have done something wrong, and came up empty. He cannot for the life of him figure out where his fault lies this time, but then again, that was often the case with Ma as well: sometimes she would tell him outright, spewing words to go with her lashings like harsh, off-key music to which pain was the drum beat, but the times she dished out retribution with her lips sealed in a thin line of fury, expecting him to know his own sins, were just as frequent, and he supposes he should count his blessings and be glad that Percival’s reaction to his as yet unknown mistake comes in the form of clipped answers to his endless inquiries and awkward silences at dinner in place of idle chatter.

It still hurts.

But words aren’t the only thing with which Percival has been unusually sparing. It takes Credence some time to realize what else has changed, and yet more time to come to terms with the fact that he misses it, but the man won’t touch him anymore, not like he used to.

It reminds him of their tentative beginnings, when a touch without warning could very nearly set off the Obscurus and even one that he knew was coming could make him jump; but he’s not that person anymore, and there’s a curiously hollow sensation in his chest when Percival keeps a cautious distance, a gaping hole where his heart should be when he unthinkingly goes for a pat on his shoulder and aborts the gesture, visibly rethinking it.

 _What have I done?_ he asks himself for what feels like the thousandth time, but no answer is forthcoming.

All he knows is that, if he thinks back hard enough, he can see quite clearly that the change started That Day, and that he would give anything to go back to the way things were.

He comes up with increasingly ridiculous, far-fetched excuses, emboldened by a need he hadn’t even known was there: he flicks away a piece of lint on the man’s shoulder that most definitely didn’t exist and tells himself he’s only imagined the way he averts his eyes; he earns himself yet more disapproval by passing the salt by hand, ignoring Percival’s frequent suggestions that he should learn to do these little things by magic; one memorable and admittedly reckless time, he fails a spell on purpose just to have a little extra guidance, harboring the wish that the feeling of closeness could be bottled like a potion, to be stored for later and opened at his leisure.

It’s utterly useless.

He is no closer to understanding what has earned him this newfound coldness, and his stolen touches are doing absolutely nothing to restore what was between them.

Not that he knows what that _was_ , anyway. They’ve always been more than a teacher and a student, of that he has no doubt, if only because giving him a roof over his head and waking up in the small hours of the night to coax the darkness back under his skin when his nightmares draw it out against his will surely go above and beyond the duties of a mere instructor, and as they fell into an easy routine of shared meals and quiet domesticity, slowly memorizing each other’s quirks, Credence had even, for lack of terms of comparison, flattered himself into thinking they might be friends.

But That Day has done nothing but sow chaos in their lives and leave a trail of pieces in its wake that no Mending Charm can pick up.

By all rights, Credence should be trying his hardest to forget all about it.

Then why, _why_ does he find himself thinking he would very much like a repeat of the experience, and perhaps even – but that’s only as he’s falling asleep at night, when the line between thoughts and dreams becomes blurred and the disjointed images that flit through his head don’t make much sense at all – something more?

At least, he reasons, he can take some small measure of comfort in the fact that Percival had not recoiled in understandable disgust at the thought of kissing his hand almost like you would a lady’s: perhaps that means he would not cast him from his home if he were aware of the lustful direction his private fantasies have been taking, if he knew that the Obscurus is not the only thing inside him that has gone dark and twisted, if he wants another man the way nature demands he should desire a woman.

But the object of his impossible flights of fancy is not just any man—it is Percival Graves, and what business does a man of his station, powerful by just about every definition of the term Credence can think of, have with him, a needy little thing whose knowledge of magic equals that of a child and whose experience in matters of love is even less?

It is hopeless. Even if he had any right to pursue him, if the mere thought didn’t make the heat in his cheeks feel like a taste of the fires of hell that surely await him for even conceiving such a notion, he does not know how to go about making himself more desirable. He knows nothing of the subtle art of coy smiles and pretty words, can scarcely imagine the vague, unnamed sins that might happen between two people once the door to the bedroom closes behind them.

When he cast his first spell successfully, he had been drunk with power: for maybe half an inebriating second, he had been dizzy with the prospect that it was the first step down a path that could let him have anything he wanted someday. Now he laughs bitterly at his own stupidity, because the one thing he yearns for is the one magic cannot get him.

_Or can it?_

A questioning, impish little voice unravels his morose train of thought and stills the breath in his lungs. He’s not even asking for all-encompassing love like he’s only ever glimpsed on the posters outside movie theaters before he had to quicken his pace to keep up with Ma as she hastened disdainfully away from those places of new and more refined sin; just a small nudge in the intended direction, something to make his face look like maybe That Day isn’t a moment of folly to be regretted, that’s all. He’s desperate enough for it.

He has no idea what he’s looking for; the vastness of Percival’s collection of books is more daunting than ever, his search frantic, with no rhyme or reason. No matter how strongly he reminds himself that he has been given free roam of the library, no matter how much he kids himself that Percival would grace him with a proud smile and be happy to see him finally experimenting with his magic beyond what he is told to do in his lessons, he cannot shake the feeling that he is doing something dirty and forbidden. A precarious pile of discarded books falling over has his heart in his throat; the creak of a floorboard seems to herald Percival coming home early and turning him out on the streets in a towering rage at his trespassing.

And yet… he likes it. Back when magic was entirely new to him and the notion of having it for himself even more so, he used to ask for permission to make use of it, as though fearing it would go away if he stretched its limits, but that hadn’t lasted long. After the third time or so, Percival had snapped, in a rare slip of his composure, that magic was his to use as he damn well pleased, and a wizard worthy of that name didn’t ask for permission to do so any more than he asked for permission to breathe. He thought he knew what that meant, but he didn’t, not really. Not until now. It’s funny, he muses, what a broken heart does to you.

He finds it almost by accident, his eye snapping back to the words as if attracted magnetically as he skims in a growing frenzy. _To Encourage a Lover’s Affections_ , says the elegant print, and he has to push the book away for a moment, at once giddy and ashamed as dangerous ideas of what those affections might be flash before him.

He reads the instructions and his newborn hopes sink. He’s never seen the likes of this; Percival is proficient enough at potion-making to teach him the ropes, has renewed his languishing stocks just for Credence’s benefit, in fact, but they both prefer the satisfying immediacy of waving a wand and seeing instant results, and while the procedure is in plain English, it gives him the curious sensation of a foreign language.

His hands are shaking badly as he sets up the worktable, and his head is reeling with the realization that, as if the nature of his insane venture weren’t enough, it’s the first time he’s done it without supervision. He swallows hard, but the lump in his throat doesn’t budge.

Nothing on the list is terribly exotic, and Percival’s meticulous labels confirm that all he requires is within reach; an odd sense of finality grips him as he checks off the last, fundamental item. _This is it._

He’s timed it well, telling himself to resist and wait until the hour he usually comes home approaches, so he won’t have too long to wait to see if it worked. He doesn’t think his sanity would survive the suspense of not knowing.

Pleasant shock courses through him as he goes through the steps one by one, heart beating a wild tattoo as though it wanted to burst from his ribcage, and still the bubbling contents of his cauldron have not decided to explode or turn purple or any of those things Percival’s cautionary tales from his school days threatened him with in case of failure.

He stares at the thick vapor rising from it and very nearly runs away, though whether it’s out of fear of the step he’s about to take, or in disgust at his own selfishness, well… that’s debatable.

But it’s far too late to back away, and so his trembling fingers find the last ingredient to be added.

He gives himself one last moment to be amazed at how deceivingly innocent it looks, a simple sprig of wholly unremarkable greenery that might have come from any country roadside, giving no visible sign of the power it holds within.

He never thought he’d see the day he found something he had in common with a plant.

And then – Credence has no idea how that is going to help matters, but the book is clear about it, and who is he to question it? – he holds it high above the steaming potion, and in deference to the instructions, he utters the name of the object of his unfulfilled desire.

“Percival Graves.”

A lone whisper of foolish hope that barely disturbs the heavy silence of the small laboratory, a murmured plea to a force he doesn’t understand. He brings it to his lips and tries his hardest to pretend they’re being touched by Percival’s, but the smell is all wrong, too sweet and not the slightest bit like his, and breaks the illusion.

He lets go, and it falls in with a most unsatisfying little splash. The Earth doesn’t move.

And now to wait. The scent is growing surprisingly potent, and his head feels curiously light with it, as if it were robbing the room of air to breathe. The hour comes and passes, and he considers waiting at the front door for his return, but some instinct roots him in place, telling him to wait for Percival to come to him. He always does, eventually.

“Credence?” He jumps about a foot in the air. His fists clench reflexively as his approaching steps get louder, and he dearly wishes he’d already learnt how to Disapparate, because disappearing sounds like an excellent idea right about now. “Sorry I’m late, I was tied up at work.”

His familiar figure seems to fill the doorway as if he were taller, but that’s probably just because Credence feels terribly small.

“I’ve been looking all over for you, what…?”

His nostrils flare at the sickly sweet evidence of his misdeeds, and Credence can see the gears turning in his keen investigator’s mind as he steps forward.

He’s putting two and two together.

He knows what this is, of course he does, and it’s not as though Credence has had a thriving social life lately, with an ample choice of people to set his heart on. It’s painfully obvious who the not-so-fortunate recipient of his experiment is meant to be.

Credence isn’t sure if the heady scent is having the intended effect on Percival, but he’s quite convinced it’s doing something to _him_ , because he’s covered the distance between them before he knows it, and their lips crash together.

It’s the kiss of one who has no idea what he’s doing, desperate and awkward and breathless and hungry. Percival makes a sound in the back of his throat that might be shock or a thousand other things he cannot name, and Credence’s whole body seems to thrum with it like a string plucked by an expert musician.

He comes up for air, and he wants to _die_. What has he done this time?

Percival cups his face with his hands, that’s a new one, it feels too nice to last, surely a polite prelude to rejection, and accidentally-on-purpose brushes his thumb on the corner of his mouth as it still seems to reel from the foreign sensation.

“Just as soft as I thought,” he says in what sounds for all the world like wonder, and before Credence can process what’s going on, he reciprocates.

It’s slow this time, done with the utmost care, almost a lesson in what a kiss should be as he angles his head _just so_ with the same gentle authority with which he corrects the motions of his wand, and Credence melts into it.

If this is sin, hell sounds like a much nicer place than Ma ever described.

But then the kiss breaks, his cheeks feel oddly cold now that his hands have left them, and cruel realization lodges in his chest like a lump of ice. This means nothing.

“It’s just magic talking.”

Percival sniffs the air, seemingly deep in thought. “Did you get this from _Coddington’s Compendium of Captivating Charms_?”

What an odd question. He’s gone and crossed just about every line that could be crossed, tried to affect him with the very same magic he’s been teaching him, the very picture of ingratitude and greed, and he wants to know what book he used? What does it matter at this point?

But he supposes he owes him that, at least, and so he stammers out: “Y-yes.”

And incredibly, incongruously, of all the things he could possibly do, Percival _laughs_.

“Oh, my boy, you really need to learn to choose better source material for your projects. That book is the greatest load of nonsense I’ve ever had the misfortune of seeing in print. Complete scam, an old closed case, I didn’t even know I still had a copy.”

One broad wave of his wand later, the room is free from the lingering scent of the potion, and perhaps his head has cleared along with it, because it’s only then that the enormity of what he’s heard crashes upon him.

If there was no strange magic in the air, but only the cloying smell of perfectly good herbs gone to waste, then…

“But then, why…?” The question dies on his lips, because every variation he can come up with sounds too accusing— _why were you so cold with me, why didn’t you do this sooner, why did you let me think I needed such dirty tricks to have you?_

But he seems to understand all the same.

“Because I’m an idiot, that’s why.”

That… is not the answer Credence expected.

“I assumed this couldn’t possibly be what you wanted. I told myself that someday, you would find your rightful place in our world, and then you’d have to beat them off with a stick and forget all about an old man’s moment of self-indulgence. I distanced myself because—Mercy Lewis, I’m making an utter fool of myself.” There’s a long, long pause, as if the words cost him, and then: “I was afraid. Afraid you wouldn’t want me that way, and perhaps more than that, that if you _did_ , or thought you did, at any rate, it would be because you felt that you owed it to me. But this…”

“My place is here, Percival,” he says, surprising even himself. “I have no interest in finding it if it doesn’t have you in it.”

It’s not a grand declaration, but it will do. He’s never been one for grand things anyway. Their eyes meet, and, well…

Third time’s the charm, as they say.

**Author's Note:**

> What Credence is doing is essentially [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2nAAVuD3L7w), sans the chanting in Unidentified Exotic Language™ and the poor chicken, because that movie makes me think of him, so sue me.
> 
> I don't know why the first story I posted in this series is in the past tense and the rest keeps writing itself in present tense, and my inner perfectionist is bothered, but just go with it.


End file.
